


glasnost

by mayor_crumblepot



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Oswald Cobblepot, Distrust, I mean kind of, Knifeplay, Knives, M/M, Mental Instability, Scarification, Sort Of, Torture, bad people doing bad things, christ this sounds awful, i dont make the rules i just feel like everyone should know what theyre getting into here, is it torture if oswald is into it? i guess not but idc, just a lot of fucking mentions of knives, nsfw content but its entirely consensual and healthy, suck on that, this is a hell of my own design
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-21 16:51:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13745241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayor_crumblepot/pseuds/mayor_crumblepot
Summary: set after 3x9, isabella's untimely deaththis is a bastardization of a "five times when [x] and one time when [y]" with a bonus "one time when [z]"a rumination on trust between ed and oswald, following a massive meltdown on ed's end of things. oswald struggles to figure out what the proper course of actions is, especially considering he's the one who sent ed on this downward spiral regarding his identity, and his ever changing state of mind.rated mature for vague nsfw content at the end.





	glasnost

**Author's Note:**

> **glasnost ; гла́сность**   
>  _ˈɡläzˌnōst_   
>  publicity ; openness    
>  (in the former soviet union) the policy or practice of more open consultative government and wider dissemination of information 

_1._

After the incident at the Sirens with Butch, Ed believes he knew Oswald had feelings for him. Maybe not  _actively_ knew, but some part of him, deep down, could read the watery look Oswald gave him on that couch. 

Literally everything Oswald did for him screamed of love, but Ed just refused to see it. 

Well, you know what they say. Hindsight is always twenty-twenty. And really, Ed has never been known for his good vision to begin with. 

Even throughout his short-lived relationship with Isabella, Ed knew that he had feelings for Oswald. What feelings, he wasn't sure. He wasn't going to try and figure it out, either. Isabella offered him a chance at normalcy, a chance at a white picket fence and a quiet home and valence curtains and cherry pie— he doesn't even like cherry pie, but he was willing to try. 

But, the cards fell where they did, and Ed has Oswald tied up in the kitchen of his father's mansion. He anxiously fixes the sleeves of his shirt, tries to ignore that the nicest thing he owns comes from Oswald himself. 

To say that Ed is angry would be an oversimplification. He's heartbroken, confused, he feels betrayed, and he's  _also_ angry. It's a terrible mix of feelings for a man with an identity disorder and an obvious distortion of reality. 

What hurts Ed the most, out of everything, is that he's had feelings for Oswald all along. Feelings of love and adoration, the desire to fall asleep beside a fireplace, to need for eternal domesticity, someone to share a bed with and build a family with. Someone to share the most vulnerable of his own desires with. That someone, in his mind, has always been Oswald, when it comes to fantasy. 

Feelings and Ed don't mix, however. Not too well. And Oswald squandered those feelings with his own selfishness. 

So here he stands, sleeves rolled up and suspenders bared as he watches Oswald come to in the dining room chair he's been tied to.

"Ed?" The first response is fear, of course it is. Considering the circumstances. "Oh,  _Ed_ , it's you—" Oswald can't stop himself from smiling and it only breeds Ed's anger further. "Why am I tied up?"

"Do you want the long answer or the short answer, Oswald?" Ed twists a knife between his fingers, hisses when it breaks skin and draws blood. 

"Short, if I may."

"You killed Isabella," Ed closes in on Oswald's chair, walks around it, "I was going to kill you, but I decided against it. I'm going to make you pay for what you did to me, regardless." He stops in front of Oswald again, smiling at the other, all teeth. Oswald thinks, in the back of his mind, that Ed is trying a little too hard. "Clear?"

Oswald doesn't speak, just nods. He can't stand it when Ed is clipped with him, it makes him feel the purest form of discomfort that he's ever felt before. 

To the best of his ability, Ed tried to avoid putting robes where they'd be in his way. Oswald's arms are tied behind his back, then tied to the legs of the chair, much like his legs are— tied to the chair by his ankles. He may have some wiggling space, but he couldn't get very far even if he wanted to. Ed wishes he would at least try. 

"Ed, please, I—" Oswald swallows anxiously as Ed hovers over him, draws the knife over his bare arms slowly. His undershirt makes absolutely no difference to how undressed he feels, "I love you. You know this now."

"So you've said," Ed draws a horizontal line along the chub of Oswald's upper arm, pulling a steady stream of blood and a hiss from him. He doesn't want to believe Oswald, doesn't want to trust him with a heart that's only just barely wedged itself back together with barbed wire stitches and rubber cement. Regardless, actions have consequences and Oswald doesn't seem to realize how lucky he is just to be alive. 

"I— I mean it, I do!" As Ed cuts lines of varying depth down Oswald's arm, he pushes against the ropes. All this does is cause Oswald more pain, but he can't stand the feeling of helplessness and blood dripping down his arm from one cut until it slides into another. He shivers when Ed toys with his skin, making the cuts open and close. 

Doing this doesn't feel as good as Ed had expected it to. He expected a rush, a feeling of satisfaction, anything. All he's faced with is mild excitement and general discomfort.

Ed drags the knife down Oswald's throat to his jawline, down to his collarbone, leaving a wide, smooth cut behind him. Blood drips down to stain the neck of Oswald's undershirt. Ed deliberates— his expression is grave, confused, judgmental; he doesn't know how he feels as he watches Oswald's blood slowly escape his body. He looks up at Oswald's face, wanting to see how miserable he is— he's fucking smiling.

It's a dopey little smile, the one he constantly gives Ed when he thinks the other man isn't looking. All it does it make Ed want to carve his face right off of his skull. Instead, he draws another line on the opposite side of Oswald's neck and watches the way his eyes flutter. He even blushes. 

"You're enjoying this."

As soon as the smile has come, it disappears. "What— wait, no, absolutely not." Oswald is a terrible liar when it comes to Ed; he pulls strange contortions of his face when he's required to do so.

Ed knows he should feel aghast, absolutely disgusted but instead he smirks. It's interesting. 

"Is it that I'm so close to you?" Ed pushes his body in, cheek pressed close to Oswald's. "Or is it something else?" He teasingly runs the knife down Oswald's chest, not hard enough to cut through his shirt. Ed drags it back up only to cut another line across Oswald's collarbone. 

"Please, Ed," Oswald has tears in his eyes, nervous and oh, so alive. He doesn't try to pull away from the knife. 

Ed pulls back to survey what his next plan of attack should be. He makes quick work of cutting open the front of Oswald's undershirt, purposefully ruining the thing because he knows how Oswald hates that. From there, he straddles Oswald's hips and drops himself down on the smaller man's lap. He has good leverage here, and he can easily plant his feet on the ground. Oswald whines, presses his lips shut aggressively and squeezes his eyes tight. 

"Don't get blood on my shirt, okay?" Ed plays nice, so soft and gentle as he cups Oswald's chin with his free hand. The knife works over his freckled cheek, a dainty cut running horizontally beneath his left eye. The whines are louder now, and Ed gently presses his thumb against Oswald's lips to quiet him as he works. "Shh, Oswald, I—" Ed nearly loses the knife when Oswald sucks his thumb into his mouth, runs his tongue up against it, desperately. It feels like he might consider biting down, but chooses not to. 

This changes things.

This adds a certain sexuality to the situation that Ed isn't too sure how to skew to his advantage.

He supposes he'll just roll with it. 

Ed makes a symmetrical cut on the other side of Oswald's face, giving him two perfect, straight lines underneath his eyes, right at the top of his cheeks. The blood drips down, over his cheeks, until it rolls underneath his chin. It looks like tears, exacerbated by Oswald's  _actual_ tears that just won't stop coming. 

"If you apologize, if you beg," he says, pulling his thumb out of Oswald's mouth, "maybe I'll untie you."

"I don't care if you untie me," Oswald says pitifully, confused between his own pain and his lovestruck heart. He spits on the floor, removing the moment of weakness from his mouth. "If you let me go because you feel like you've made your point, it won't be worth it."

Anger surges through Ed; Oswald knows him so well. No matter what, Ed won't be able to stop until he feels that he's made Oswald suffer enough, until he feels that Oswald understands what he's endured. The pain of loss is immeasurable, Ed knows this now. 

"You think you know everything," Ed says bitterly, practically growling as he angles the knife against Oswald's throat, pressing hard. "Tell me this; am I going to kill you?"

"I hope so." The answer sends Ed reeling, genuine concern flashing across his eyes until he can force himself to will it away. Oswald sees it all, of course. He's the only one who sees, who's seen all along. "To die by your hand would be a privilege," he says, looking at Ed with the same dopey eyes from before, "you know that, don't you?"

"Why— why is that?"

"Because I love you," Oswald says, arching his head upward to give Ed more throat, "you know I do. Love is sacrifice, and I'm giving you my life for hers." 

"Stop it," with a hand on the side of his head, Ed clutches at his skull, nervous and confused, "stop that. Stop lying to me."

"Do I look like I'm in a position to be bluffing, Edward?"

When Ed pulls himself back, when he looks at the blood dripping down Oswald's chest and down his arms, when he sees the small slit that the knife has made on Oswald's throat, his collarbones, his face— no. Oswald is trapped. There are no tricks this time, there are no hidden secrets, no panic buttons or team waiting outside of the house. It's been days, nobody has come looking for him.

It can be over for Oswald, here and now, and it's all up to Ed.

"The ultimate sacrifice," Oswald narrates, seeing the realization occur to Ed, "you don't have to love me, but it would be nice if I could have my feelings acknowledged as truth before I die."

"You love me," Ed says, voice hollow as he pulls the knife away. 

"With my whole heart."

"Have you always?"

"I think so," he admits, somehow bashful while being tied to a chair, "why else do you think I visited you so much in Arkham? I never went there for anyone else. I  _hated_ it there."

In his mind's eye, Ed sees every gesture of affection that Oswald gave him, he sees the tailored suits and the compliments and the careful, loving touches. He sees the extremely well padded paycheck, he sees his room just upstairs, furnished with the nicest armoire, bed frame, and vanity table. Oswald has given him so much, and now only Ed decides to respond, when something has been taken away. 

"I've done something awful, haven't I?" Ed asks nervously, pulling the knife further back and dropping his hand to his side, "Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear—" After cutting through one of the ropes, just enough to let Oswald wriggle himself free, Ed runs up to his room. His heart is in his throat and his pulse is in his ears; he feels Oswald under his skin, in his brain, so trusting and unafraid— why isn't he afraid?

He doesn't come out for three days. Doesn't talk for more. 

* * *

_2._

"You want me to suffer; an eye for an eye," Oswald says, not having the energy to glare at Ed over a cold cup of coffee. Breakfast has never quite been the same, "You seem to forget that I'm putting myself through suffering, all of my own volition." 

"And what's that?"

"Loving you." The wind leaves Ed's lungs as he drops his mug, feels the lukewarm tea spreading beneath his feet. His own existence is an act of violence, his very proximity to Oswald can be weaponized and used to his advantage. Oswald would do anything for him, would drop to his knees and carve the freckles out of his skin— if his body would withstand it, he'd take his own heart out just to watch Ed dissect it and pick out his favorite parts, "You know how it is, don't you? I'm sure you've been in my position before."

"Yes," Ed says, far away as he returns to his early days at the GCPD, watching Kristen from the safety of the bullpen. He watches himself fall in love (become obsessed? Is there a difference, with him?), memorize her daily routine, sketching her beautiful profile into his tiny notebook and pressing it to his heart like the most romantic letter in the midst of a world war. He knows her every detail, her most intimate curve and sincerest secret— And yes, yes he knows that some of those things were never for him to know. He knows that he had to rip them out of her skin and collect them, tiny little flowers pressed in the pages of his moleskine cahier next to notes rewritten on notes rewritten on notes. She never offered them up to him, does that still make them his? Does that still make it an act of love? "Once."

Oswald offered all of these things up to him gladly, sat down and told him about his father and promised that Elijah would have loved him like his own. Ed was blessed with the history of Oswald's upbringing, the details of his mother's recipes that he could never get right, the dreams that haunted him as a child that still come to him now, on rainy nights that make his knee stiff. He knows everything there is to know about Oswald; his measurements, his favorite foods, his ideal retirement age, all of the things he wishes he could have, but can't because of his lifestyle— their lifestyle. The war they wage together, willingly. 

"Then you understand," Oswald says, voice betraying just how deep his sadness runs. He's never felt this before, and it's very possible that he never will again. Penguins mate for life, as the adage goes. (Is it really an adage? Or is it just a statement so many have thrust upon him? They aren't wrong.) "Your loss defines you, and my heart defies me," he stands up from the table, grabbing the broom and sweeping the broken mug away from Ed's feet, "we're matched."

"Matched," Ed echoes, looking at his and Oswald's reflections in the spilled chamomile tea.

"We're better together," Oswald tells him, leaving the shards on the floor for someone to get, someone he pays to pick up the pieces, "but I'll keep my distance, until it's safer."

Ed wants to ask "for whom" but he thinks the answer might hurt more than the uncertainty. Instead, he watches Oswald's retreating form and is reintroduced to isolating loneliness. 

* * *

_3._

Stop me if you've heard this one before.

One man walks into a room; he sees five faces in the mirror looking back at him.

If the train leaves at 7:45 on Wednesday, traveling at 60 miles per hour; how long will it be until Edward Nygma breaks every mirror in the room?

Which of his remaining two reflections is the real one?

The walls are bleeding.

Ed tries to wipe it up, he tries to staunch the flow or simply figure out where it could be coming from; how many bodies has Oswald hidden in the walls? What terrible horrors hide behind the wallpaper?

He raids a linen closet in a hurry, not wanting to drip on the floor. When he comes back to his bedroom, everything is fine. Everything is fine except for the bruises forming on Ed's arms from his frantic movements. 

The wallpaper is moving.

A woman wanders between the damask stripes, sometimes blond and sometimes redheaded; always beautiful. Uncanny how she switches from style to style, reaching out to him from behind the bars that the stripes impose over her. She loves him, he knows she does. He knows that she wants what's best for him, she only wants to help him; she's trapped just like he is, inside this house, inside his own mind. 

He picks at the wallpaper with bare hands, with razor blades and the angled edges of binders. Ed works his fingers to bleeding nubs, tearing all of the wallpaper away except for the section closest to his window. The woman stands there, crying, like she's pleading for her life.

All he had wanted to do was help.

Was he hurting her?

It's too late now.

Ed pulls the wallpaper down in one fluid motion, throwing the piece to the floor and splattering his blood everywhere with the movement. When he looks back at it, looking for the woman (women?), he finds her dead.

She lays on his bed, perfectly pale and glasslike in her slip, rumpled like last night's bedsheets. Glasses, glasses, horn rimmed and beautiful, a woman out of time as she sits there, perfectly still. Ed touches her and her skin sets on fire. Her hair goes white and the glasses shatter and the clothes are seared to the skin; she smells like a car fire and a broken heart. 

"I'm sorry," Ed says, so remorseful, "I never— I would never hurt you, never, I—"

 _But you did_ , the corpse says, voice like a scratched jazz record. 

And then she's gone.

Where the wallpaper once was, Ed draws question marks, over and over and over and over until his blood starts to mix with the green paint maker. It drinks down the walls, a swirl of brown that matches the baseboards when it reaches them. 

There's a knock on the door, then retreating steps. Oswald has left him food, a warm meal likely nuked in a microwave after it had gone cold on the table. On the tray beside the meat and potatoes sits a single brownie, two plastic bottles of water, and painkillers. There is no note, but the entire gesture reeks of love, like a pink sticky note with a heart drawn onto it and signed with a kiss. 

Ed brings the tray inside, and where the body of his ex-girlfriends once was, Oswald is reclined; so very alive in his mind's eye. He's beautiful, backlit by the green light that used to come in Ed's apartment window, hair flat and soft. The way he runs his hand through it is an invitation.

 _It's special for you_ , Oswald says, sounding like a wife who wants nothing more than white picket fences and to take Ed's hat from him when he comes home from work in the evenings,  _made with love._

Slowly, his mind merges Kristen and Isabella with Oswald. His mind applies the vintage beauty to Oswald's harsh edges, the simple patterns to Oswald's brocade, creating some terrible creature that resents Ed more than it loves him.

"Please, stop," he begs, watching the people snap apart and sit side by side, bloodied as if they'd been connected by living skin. 

 _I bet I can cook better than either of them could,_ Oswald holds his head high, legs spread widely to make room for the cane he's holding in front of him,  _I love you more. I know you._

"Stop—" 

 _My life is in your hands, you know that, don't you?_ Ed blinks and Oswald is standing up, offering bloody hands up to him, preparing to dump his heart into Ed's hands.  _You nursed my wounds, you saved my life— it's yours to take away, too._

Ed turns around harshly and goes to eat the food that has now long since gone cold again. It feels like it's been sitting so long that the food has gathered dust— maybe it has. He raises a forkful to his mouth, stopping short when his double stares him down, looking suspiciously lovecraftian. 

 _I wouldn't eat that if I were you,_ the double laughs, horrible and mechanical,  _get it? Because I am you._ His face keeps changing with the shadows (when did night come?), eyes explode out of his face like pimples and close up again, disappearing. Fingers crawl ever closer toward the tray on the desktop, but the hand they're connected to never moves. His voice is Ed's only in cadence; the rest of it is broken radios and figments of impulse, a chemical burn on the roof of your mouth. Something like that.  _The things you own end up owning you._

"What?"

 _It's probably poisoned,_ the double says, standing up and going out of focus,  _he's trying to kill you._

Ed opens up his window and throws the whole tray out into the rose garden. He isn't very strong and throwing has never been one of his best skills, but he ends up scattering the food and the dishes nicely. 

* * *

_4._  

"I'm worried for him, Victor," Oswald walks the hallways with his most devoted hitman, keep his voice low enough that it doesn't echo off of the vaulted ceilings, "he hasn't left his room in weeks."

"You sure about that?" There are footprints on the floor, suspiciously rust like blood with flecks of green. So he  _has_ been the one sneaking food from the kitchen at night. That's a relief. "He's just holed up, boss. He'll get a hold of himself eventually?"

"What if he doesn't?"

 

 _He's trying to get you killed,_ the double peers through the keyhole on Ed's door, watching Oswald and Victor,  _why else would he have Victor here?_

"He wouldn't do that," Ed tries to keep his voice down, doesn't want them to notice how close they are to him, "he said he loves me."

 _He pities you. He resents you for your sickness. For your genius._ Oswald appears, dressed in elegant Roman drapery. The double wears the equivalent, but in green. He pulls out a spring-loaded switchblade and stabs Oswald in the stomach, putting his hands out to catch the blood that comes falling from his mouth.  _You should totally just stab Oswald._

"Shut up, shut up, shut up—"

_He's pushing you away—_

"He's trying to  _keep_ me—"

_Just a subtle push, sending you off the edge of a dock into madness—_

"He loves me—"

The double laughs, an obnoxiously balanced sound that belongs on the other end of a politician's socially questionable joke,  _He never loved you, he couldn't ever truly love you._

"That's not  _true!_ "

 _How could he love someone who can't even be honest with himself?_ It hurts, the terrible light that the double gives off when he's right, _There's too many of you, too much off brand luggage. For him to be interested, it ought to be Versace._

"Please, stop," Ed feels a terrible pain in the center of his forehead, creating pressure behind his eyes, "I can't think with you talking."

 _I_ am _you thinking,_ he grumbles, pacing circles around Ed, wearing an invisible groove the stained floorboards,  _and you're thinking that you've made him wait too long. He's so many steps ahead of you; why, I don't think he's ashamed to say that he's—_

"Be quiet!" It's so hard to keep his temper, so hard, so hard, so hard. Sometimes, the double's voice sounds too much like his father's, feels too much like the clip of leather popping against skin. "I know what I'm doing! I know what I want," Ed's voice dwindles, breaking and falling flat as he starts shaking, "I know what I want, I know what I want—"

_Then go out there, ask him for help. You have nothing to be afraid of, right? If he loves you so goddamn much._

"Stop," he's begging, trying to bargain with someone who has nothing he can be bought with. When the tears finally fill Ed's vision, the double disappears. 

 

"God," Oswald leans against the wall, staring at Ed's bedroom door with wet eyes, "Victor, I— I don't know what to do."

"I'm not sure I'm the one you should be asking for advice," despite his discomfort, Victor pats Oswald's arm stiffly. The movements are there, but the soul isn't. It could be worse. "But hasn't he always been a little," it seems like he wants to find a more elegant way to say what he means, but can't find the right words, "you know, fucked up?"

"Watch your tongue," he hisses, swatting at Victor's shins with his cane, " _you_ don't know him. You don't get to talk about him like that. He's brilliant," Oswald says fondly, overcome with emotion mere moments later, "it's my fault he's overwhelmed."

"I think you're underestimating his crazy, boss," starting down the hall, Victor sends a wary glance back at the door, hoping that Oswald can't hear the frantic muttering that he can. "Sometimes, there's nothing you can do. You just gotta wait," he shrugs, popping his suspenders absently, "like waiting for a pizza delivery. Gotta give it time."

"I— I feel like that's not an apt comparison, Victor."

"Maybe not," Victor walks backward down the hallways, pleased when Oswald finally starts following him, "but you can't help him if he doesn't want to be helped. You should know that better than I do."

* * *

_5._

In an attempt to stretch out the tense muscles in his knee, Oswald walks the second floor and rehearses a speech he's supposed to be giving later that week. He mumbles to himself, simultaneously trying to unlearn his bad habit of touching his hair when he forgets words— it makes him seem young, uneducated, incapable. He's done away with his bangs, moving them out of his face and away from the reach of his fingers. 

He notices how quiet the house sounds, how dead it feels when Ed isn't bustling about. Usually, Ed would walk around the house as he planned schedules, as he took phone calls, as he worked his way through problems that he couldn't solve while at his desk. The change of scenery was good for his mind, he said. 

Footsteps come up behind him, quick and purposeful. Before he can take the handle off of his cane, he's hauled around a corner and into an alcove doorway with a knife to his throat.

Why is it always knives?

"Oswald—" it's Ed, half dressed in dirty clothes with hair overgrown and glasses askew, "you— you're styling your hair differently," he says, in lieu of an explanation.

Breathing comes with difficulty; Oswald's sad, touch starved body trying to figure his way around the situation. He feels Ed's hand on his chest, above his beating heart, feels the knife against his throat and Ed's other wrist against his scarred collarbone. Ed's breath goes over his cheek, bringing with it the overwhelming smell of his cologne; wormwood and orange blossom like a stiff drink, a Jean Paul Gaultier that Oswald bought for him. Is he wearing that instead of bathing?

"Thank you for noticing," he manages, aware that his eyes are already misty, "let me go."

"I— I heard someone downstairs, and I went to look and— and I didn't recognize you," Ed stops speaking and lifts his head, as if he hears someone in the distance, ghostly footsteps and a broken vase. Oswald doesn't hear anything. 

"Oh, Edward," he says tiredly, pushing the knife away so that he can kneel and pick up his cane. "Join me in the—" Oswald pushes the door open, peeks inside; the study. That'll work, "Join me in the study, will you?"

"What about the people downstairs?" Despite hesitating, Ed follows Oswald into the study with the knife dangling loosely in his hand. 

"There isn't anyone here, Ed," Oswald tells him as he closes the oak doors behind them, voice bordering on cruel, "it's just us. It's just me and you," he considers the windows, the sunlight and the beautiful, bright world on the other side of the estate line, "or perhaps, just the taxidermy of me and you."

"I don't understand, I heard—"

Oswald takes the knife from Ed, stabbing it roughly into the hardwood desktop, "This house was my father's tomb," he says, perching himself on the edge of the desk, "and it is undoubtedly filled with ghosts. Just that, though; no visitors, no burglars, no enemies."

"Ghosts aren't real," Ed says dumbly, using a shaking hand to push his glasses up. 

"Maybe so," absently, Oswald considers the knife right beside his hip, wonders just how hard it would be to wrench it back out of the antique wood, "but neither are hallucinations, and yet—" he gestures to Ed's chest, to the mess he's made of himself. 

In this light, Oswald can see the way his fingernails are shredded, the way he's scratched what might be words into his arms, the smudges of blood and paint on his shirt. There are bags underneath his eyes, his lips are bitten raw, and despite the cologne he smells like nervous sweat and tears, salty and muddy, like he's been buried alive. 

 _He's talking down to you,_ the double sits next to Oswald on the desk, fingers dancing around the hilt of the knife,  _you should kill him. He doesn't respect you._

"I'm sorry," Oswald speaks up, deflating after getting a good look at the state Ed is in, "that was harsh of me. I only mean that there is  _no one_ else in this house but us."

 _He's backpedaling because he's afraid. He doesn't trust you not to slit his throat,_ he draws his fingertip over the exposed edge of the blade,  _prove him right_. Moving back, he slides around Oswald and puts his hands on him. The double draws his hands over Oswald's hips, over his waist and up under his coat— he leans in, ghosts his lips over the curve of Oswald's cheek and wraps one hand around his neck.  _Or you could choke him_ , in an attempt to get a better look at Ed, Oswald leans his head to the side,  _I know how you like a neck._

"Shut up—" he grits his teeth, holds onto his thighs and presses until the pain makes the double fuzzy around the edges, "you can't talk like that, I just— I need to think."

"Ed," worriedly, Oswald leans forward and tries to catch Ed's eyes, "I wasn't talking."

 _How do you think he feels about you now?_ The double stands next to Ed, prideful as he investigates the look on Oswald's face,  _Do you think he still loves you? Now that he's seen you like this?_ Oswald's hand hovers in the space between them, like he wants to hold Ed's hand or touch his face, like he wants to lead him out of the dark and try to save him.  _He never meant a word of it,_ the double reaches over and touches Ed's shoulder, unreasonably large hand engulfing his shoulder, fingertips pressing in so hard it feels like they'll bruise,  _you know that._

"Don't fucking touch me," Ed scrambles to stand up, knocking over the chair he'd dropped himself into, "don't touch me—"

When he catches sight of the dejected expression on Oswald's face, when he sees the eyeliner tears and the abject fear; Ed runs out of the study and nearly falls down trying to make it around the corner. He doesn't look back. 

* * *

_A1._

Ed isn't sure how long it's been since he slept. He knows he looks like hell, knows that his hands haven't stopped shaking since two sunrises ago. The night outside his window feels like it's mocking him, serene and quiet. 

He's scratched up his arms again; it feels like there's something beneath the skin, trying to escape from the confines of his body. God knows what it is— spider eggs, a physical manifestation of his genius, a government tracking device? 

Oswald's bedroom door is shut, but there's light coming out from beneath the door, and opera plays faintly in the background. Ed isn't sure how long the quiet in his head will last, but he knows that he can't afford to wait. It's now or never. 

Ed stands in the doorway to Oswald's room, suddenly keenly aware of the blood that's dripping from his hands onto the carpet. He carefully presses them up against his shirt, as if that will do something to help. 

"Ed?" Oswald sits on his bed, glasses perched on the end of his nose as he closes the book in his lap. When did he get reading glasses? At first, Oswald wants to tell him to leave, to tell him to get out and find his own way through whatever he's facing. And then the love in his heart swells, the adoration and the blind trust. No matter what, no matter how badly his arm is scarred or how much makeup he uses to cover the lines on his cheeks, Oswald can't sit idly by and watch Ed fall apart. 

He's never been formally asked, not even informally, to take care of Ed. Still, he hears the trademark sound of broken mirrors and one-sided arguments and he comes running with his nose in the air, sniffing out the smoke that leads him to the boy on fire. When did the broken son of an immigrant start loving equally broken things?

His house is filled with them; unfinished collections of books, tea sets with more cups than saucers, cracked antique vases, claw-foot tubs with only three original feet, Edward Nygma and what remains of his sanity. Like an orphanage for unwanted things, for creatures without homes, Oswald provides sanctuary for things he thinks he can fix, as if they'll be better this second time around. It's some demented practice of  _kintsugi_ , except nothing Oswald can offer is quite as precious as gold. All he can offer is direction and sometimes, when he looks at Ed, he doubts that's enough. 

He's not afraid to try, though.

"Ed, Christ, come here," he hauls himself out of bed and lets the book fall to the floor, absently drops his glasses in the general area of the beside table. Oswald lurches over to Ed, reaching up to take his face in his hands, "Did you do all of this? Will you let me help?"

"Please," Ed wants to laugh, wants to have Oswald's hands on him all the time— there's so little hesitation, so little fear in his eyes. "Please, I— Please." 

"Okay, okay," it almost seems like Oswald doesn't want to let go of Ed's face, rubbing his thumbs over his cheekbones for a minute before letting go and guiding him to the bed, "sit down. I think you put a first aid kit in my bathroom, once."

With his arms wrapped in bandages from the palms of his hands to the crooks of his elbows, Ed finally feels clean. He lets Oswald wipe blood off of his face, put bandages over scrapes and scratches on his neck, even lets him help scrub the green paint out from under what remains of his fingernails. Oswald insists that Ed change clothes, practically forces him into pajamas and puts a glass of water in his hands. 

"What would you do without me?" Oswald asks, reaching out to try and wipe another smudge of blood off of Ed's face. Ed flinches back, nearly drops his water.

"Sorry—"

"No, it's my fault, I shouldn't have—"

"I'd still be in Arkham." It comes out of left field, coming from Oswald's bad side and hitting him with all of the force of a tornado in a trailer park. "Without you, I'd still be in Arkham," Ed clarifies, holding the glass with both of his hands, "I'd probably have gotten myself killed." 

"Don't talk like that," Oswald's voice wavers as he turns away, pulling the covers back on his bed, "you'd be fine, I was only being facetious. You should lie down, get some rest," he gives Ed another look over, hovering on his ruined hands, "lord knows you haven't had any recently." 

"I've done this to myself, plenty of times," Ed starts, moving to finally put the glass down, "the walls, the self-destruction. It's cyclical," he can't look at Oswald, can't bring himself to look at the man he's been worrying for months on end, "I haven't had anyone help me. No one has lasted long enough to."

"Lasted—" Oswald stops himself, remembers the way that Kristen's face looked on missing signs, how Isabella looked on the slab. "What can I say, I'm devoted," he tries, not having enough in him to shrug. 

"You're the only one who ever— You're the only one to see," Ed tells him, hands sweaty underneath the dense bandages, "to see who I am. Who I can be. That's why we're better together."

Oswald laughs, a terrible dry sound that he uses to cover up the arrival of tears, "Yes, I know you. You're a remarkable man, Ed, despite your demons."

"You aren't horrified or disgusted," he observes, folding his hands together, "or scared of me."

"I love you," Oswald looks sad, for some reason, and Ed can't quite figure out what it is that he said wrong, "of course I'm not afraid of you. I  _love_ you, Ed."

"I know you do. I know that now."

* * *

_A2._

It's better on the bed, Oswald thinks. Much better than a dining room chair. 

Somewhere in Gotham, a building burns and their names run across the front page of the Gazette. The body count rises with the sun, sirens overwhelming the usual traffic sounds and screaming street vendors. They've been up all night, running. Their clothes smell like rain and they're smudged with ash, all of it terribly incriminating. 

"Didn't get enough excitement by blowing up a museum," Oswald asks, humming affectionately when Ed's hands work to get his shirt off, "you're still a live wire, aren't you?"

"Maybe," it isn't really up for debate— Ed's very being gives off a heat signature all its own, his energy so strong that televisions in a five mile radius could be reduced to static at the slightest flare, "is that alright?"

"Yes, dear," with a flippant swat of his hand, Oswald knocks Ed's hat off of his head, "perfectly fine—" his breath hitches when he feels a cold hand on his ribs, blunt nails dragging over his skin, "just  _fine._ "

"Rude," Ed laughs, leaning in and kissing Oswald until his glasses slide too far down his nose for it to be comfortable anymore. He sits up from his place on top of Oswald to pull his jacket off, dumping it on the ground gracelessly. As he starts to unbutton his shirt, Oswald wiggles out of his own coat and shirt, dropping back against the pillows with a satisfied sigh. 

Any time he takes his clothes off, Ed has a routine. Buttons have to be undone just so, sleeves unrolled and straightened out before he drops the garment to the floor. Oswald entertains himself by fishing through Ed's pockets in the meantime, pulling out crumpled paper and false identification— and a switchblade. 

"You've been holding out," Oswald teases, flicking the blade and considering it, "did you buy this yourself? It's cheap."

"Rude, again," he counters, reaching down to fuss with Oswald's belt. "I thought it looked interesting. The shimmer on the blade, and all."

"I could buy you a nicer one. Sharper, too."

"This one's plenty sharp," Ed tugs the belt away and undoes the button just enough to expose Oswald's hips. 

"It just seems so—" as Oswald struggles for the right word, Ed plucks the knife from his hand and presses it to the soft curve of his hip bone, grazing the point across the sensitive skin, " _oh._ "

"See? Plenty sharp," when Ed goes to pull his arm back, to close the knife and toss it somewhere offside, Oswald wraps his hand around Ed's wrist and pulls him back in.

"I'm not sure if I'm convinced," he tries, failing desperately at an attempt to sound smooth and collected. On top of the wrinkled sheets, cheeks flushed and speckled with dirt, hair flat from the rain— Oswald looks far too much like one of Ed's hallucinations. He looks unreal. Ed leans in and kisses him, firm and surprisingly cold to the touch, just to make sure. "Please," Oswald whines, easily undone just by the closeness of Ed alone, arching his back to give himself a bit more contact. 

Ed swaps the knife from hand to hand, pausing to run his fingers over the nasty, puckered scars that run along the softest part of Oswald's upper arm. Under the attention, Oswald hums again, eyelids fluttering. It's still surreal to Ed how just a simple touch from him can undo all of the pent up energy inside of Oswald, how it can uncoil springs and put out fires; Oswald lets out a contented sigh and looks up at him. "I can practically hear you thinking," he says, reaching up and putting a hand on the back of Ed's neck, pulling him down for another series of kisses, "what's going on up there, now?"

"I love you," Ed blurts, busying himself with dragging the knife's edge over Oswald's ribs, rather than looking at his face. 

"We-well," Oswald squirms, rendered breathless, "that's not f-fair, Eddie."

"How so?" Playing coy, Ed continues to draw the knife up across Oswald's side, over his chest. He presses in, shifting his hips over Oswald's slowly, deliberately; the knife presses just a touch too deep, drawing blood over Oswald's term. "Sorry," Ed says immediately, letting go of the knife and watching it drop heavily on Oswald's chest, "are you alright? I didn't mean to—" 

"I'm fine," he assures, blinking heavily as he looks up at Ed, so terribly lovestruck. Had it not been for Ed's apology, Oswald wouldn't have even noticed he was bleeding, and wouldn't have found it in himself to care, either. "It's okay, Ed," he picks the knife up, struggling to figure out how to close it, "it's okay. I trust you not to hurt me very badly." 

"You do?"

"Of course," Oswald laughs, still breathless as he looks over Ed, drawing his eyes and fingers up over his stomach, along his shoulders, "why wouldn't I? You're my partner."

Ed takes the knife from Oswald and sets it aside, ducking in and kissing him, shaking hands roaming over his sides and to his hips. He moves over Oswald quickly, almost frantically, leaving tiny bite marks and kisses on top of freckles, going over sensitive spots twice just to hear Oswald whine. In trying to take his pants off, Ed almost falls off the side of the bed, finds himself laughing too hard to be embarrassed; Oswald stares at his smile like it put the stars in the sky. "I love you," he says, as if it's a casual observation, comfortable as he is when he compliments the way Ed parts his hair, "you're absolutely breathtaking. Like a Cezanne portrait." For just a second, Oswald looks like he wants to cry— his eyes are misty but he can't help himself from smiling. He's in deep. 

"That isn't fair," Ed manages, speaking quietly as he runs his hand over the back of Oswald's thigh, "you know I prefer abstract artists."

"Hasn't stopped you before," his voice hitches up at the end, breaking into a whimper as Ed kisses his hip bone, the inside of his thigh. 

"Newman," as he brings his hips back up to meet Oswald's, Ed finds it hard to follow his train of thought. "Barnett Newman. His series of Untitled works from 1945." 

"Is that a compliment?"

"Of course it is," Ed smiles again, watching Oswald's eyes soften and go wet. He'll never understand why Oswald responds that way. "You are endlessly beautiful, but very confusing to me." 

"Ever the romantic," Oswald teases him, pulling Ed down against him for a kiss. Ed presses up, even closer, and suddenly they don't have words. They lose words and find themselves clutching at skin, biting down on shoulders and begging. Oswald seems to forget words other than Ed's name, and Ed has never been more pleased to hear it. 

 

"Thank you for trusting me," Ed says, later that night, holding Oswald against his chest. The sweat has dried and the room has gone cold, driving them beneath the various layers of blankets. Oswald's side stays uncovered, the blanket settling at the junction of his hip, over the small of his back. 

"It's my pleasure," Oswald is sleepy, half awake as he reaches up and runs his fingers through Ed's messy hair. He lets out a small, undignified snort, "literally."

Absently, Ed grazes the tip of his knife over Oswald's ribs again, moving it in graceful swirls and cursive lettering. Oswald shifts, and Ed pulls the knife up dramatically. "Be careful," he chides, sighing as he looks at Oswald's unmarred skin, "you have enough scars from me as it is."

"I don't think I have quite enough." Lazily, Oswald slides himself up so that his head is nestled perfectly into the curve of Ed's neck. His hand draws circles in the short part of Ed's hair, occasionally sliding up to twirl the longer, wavy strands. "Go back to drawing that question mark, Eddie." Ed places the tip of his knife on Oswald's side again, now pressing harder than before. He follows curves and straight lines, scribbling the dot into place. Going back a second time, Oswald grips at his hair harshly, and Ed's hand stalls, "Don't you dare stop. Don't." 

When Ed wakes up in the morning, he finds Oswald admiring himself in the mirror, using a wet rag to dab at dried blood. It requires him to twist in unreasonably difficult directions, and Ed is keen to take the rag from Oswald and do it all himself. "Don't get too comfortable taking care of me," Oswald says, kissing his temple, "it's your turn tonight."

"It's my pleasure," Ed grins widely, looking dopey eyed and dangerously in love, "literally."

"Oh, my god," Oswald kisses him, dragging him back down into the mattress, "shut up." 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading and taking this journey with me!
> 
> i actually started this fic as a nsfw challenge at the time the isabella arc was airing. and then it gave me trouble, so i left it for a few months. almost a year. i'm glad i did, because i had _so much fun_ writing this, once i figured out where it wanted to go.
> 
> this is my first work to be posted with nsfw content in it. minimal as it is.  
> i'm secretly a giant goo-machine; i don't often write nsfw content, and when i do it's terribly romantic. i didn't really avoid that in this, but this is definitely the least romantic piece i've worked nsfw into. 
> 
> there's quite a few nods at a series of different things that exist in the world. jokes, pieces of literature, films. i've been working on this piece for a while so i can't remember them all, but if you think you saw one, you did. consider them easter eggs just a little too soon.  
> speaking of, a few more things of import:
> 
> when oswald refers to ed like a cezanne portrait, he's more specifically referring to [ _Portrait of Victor Chocquet, Seated._ ](https://www.wikiart.org/en/paul-cezanne/portrait-of-victor-chocquet-seated) and when ed refers to the 1945 untitled works by barnett newman, he's talking about [ This Untitled Work, ](http://www.sothebys.com/en/auctions/ecatalogue/2017/contemporary-art-evening-auction-n09713/lot.11.html) and [ Untitled 1945 9 ](https://www.reproduction-gallery.com/oil-painting/1340422405/untitled-1945-9-by-barnett-newman/) which i can only seem to find on a reproduction site. what a shame. a runner up for his choice is [ Covenant ](https://www.wikiart.org/en/barnett-newman/covenant-1949) but i ended up deciding against it. 
> 
> talk to me on tumblr! i'm [ mayor-crumblepot ](https://mayor-crumblepot.tumblr.com)


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